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<title>Useless Machine, Worthless Person by Crosswired Processor (KageDanza)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24487408">Useless Machine, Worthless Person</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KageDanza/pseuds/Crosswired%20Processor'>Crosswired Processor (KageDanza)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Harm and Healing- One-Shot/Short Fic Collection [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Connor Deserves Happiness, Gen, Guilt, Poor Connor, Self-Loathing, Shitty 4 AM Thoughts, Survivor Guilt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:13:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24487408</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KageDanza/pseuds/Crosswired%20Processor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some nights, Connor can't bring himself to do anything but wish he'd been a better machine.</p><p> </p><p>//Don't read if you're not in a steady state of mind! It's got a lot of unhealthy thinking in it that could trigger bad thoughts and feelings if you have experience with depression or similar issues. Take care of yourself, please. &lt;3</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hank Anderson &amp; Connor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Harm and Healing- One-Shot/Short Fic Collection [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1768897</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>69</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Useless Machine, Worthless Person</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sometimes, in the dark of the house, Connor lay awake in too many ways, staring up at a borrowed ceiling. Every scrape in the paint etched itself into his memory banks as he thought, the dim light of his LED illuminating the glass of the coffee table with its warm red yellow red yellow red, the colors of ugly rumination. On those nights, he asked too many questions of the cool dark, and it replied unkindly.</p><p>What was a machine worth if it couldn’t fulfill its purpose? </p><p>The whir and spin of the inner mechanisms of the appliances in the kitchen filled the silence in the walls, the hum beneath them a lullaby of electricity. He closed his eyes.</p><p>What was a person worth if he couldn’t find a purpose?</p><p>From Hank’s bedroom the low creak of human weight shifting on an old mattress in sleep, a rhythmic pattern of open-mouth breathing. He opened his eyes again, and tried to pick out new details in the walls. </p><p>Pre-deviation. Pre-emotions. It was all about the mission, except for when it wasn’t, and then he failed. Capture the deviants, they told him, and he let them go, useless as a machine even when he’d desperately wanted- as much as he could want- to be one. Not so useless he couldn’t cause enough harm to fill a sinking freighter with blue blood, the stains on his hands evaporating quickly. But he could still see them, and the bodies he’d seen crumpled in the iron halls and the asphalt streets. All in his head. </p><p>Sumo kicked one hind leg in slumber, a growl rising and dying behind his teeth. He was dreaming. Connor watched as the dog’s eyelids twitched, and felt his own hands move slightly, his fingers curling in. </p><p>Post-deviation. Present emotions. Because even as a failed machine, a deviant, he was so much less than a whole person, wasn’t he? Whatever life in him stood upon a logic undeniable, that he was born of murder, that the people who had died that night paved the way for him to keep standing. All of this, the shadows of the leaves of his plants streaking across the carpet, the St. Bernard that allowed him to run his hands through its thick fur, the new clothes he wore, all bought with blood. </p><p>Why hadn’t he picked his sides sooner?</p><p>As a machine, he had ignored his orders to let Jericho lie, to return to CyberLife for deactivation. A failure.</p><p>As a person, he had brought death in running squadrons to his people for the sake of a mission failed. A murderer.</p><p>He brought his trembling hands in front of his face, turned them over. There was no visible sign of the destruction they’d wrought, symbolically or otherwise. Sumo woofed softly in his sleep.</p><p>If he had only accepted his failure, if he had only obeyed when they told him it was over, if only he had let it rest and gone to die, Jericho would never have fallen. If he had been a good machine, he would have done them all a favor.</p><p>He wrapped his arms around himself. Where was the blame, then, if his actions as a machine had been so flawed? He had made his choices. He had committed his crimes.</p><p>He was worse than useless, he was incompetent, he was worthless. </p><p>He released a harsh breath to relieve the tension in his chest, and curled into himself on the couch, pressing his arms into his torso. The coffee table was bathed in an even, warning red, and he let out another breath, heaving it out from his artificial lungs like laughter. It was not laughter. Sumo stirred, and he closed his mouth tightly, squeezing his eyes shut as pressure built behind them.</p><p>Sometimes, in the dark of the house, Connor slid from the cushions of the couch onto the floor and allowed himself to cry, staring down at the carpet with his head hanging low, the dim light of his LED outlining every ragged thread with its dismal red, red, red, the colors of indulgent self-loathing. On those nights, if he wasn’t quiet enough, he’d miss the faint sound of human weight shifting on an old mattress, of an open door being pulled wider open, of footsteps softer than they should be.</p><p>“Connor? Hey. Hey. I’m here.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry about that, I needed to take some bad feelings out on someone fictional.</p><p>Written and posted at 2am because who needs sleep? Not my deviant ass, no sir.</p><p>Anyway. Hope it's decent? Wish I weren't starting this series with something darker, but it's the first one I've finished so far, and I can't afford to be picky. So get that good angst, mothercluckers!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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